Our Ruination
by thequeergiraffe
Summary: Rated M for adult themes, underage!Sherlock and there is some dubious consent from both parties at times. When Mycroft says he and Sherlock have "too much history", this is what he's talking about.
1. Initiation

_Mycroft:_

I discover Sherlock's little moment of indiscretion quite accidently. You see, I am not due back at the manor for another three hours, but I managed to snag an early train (it's amazing how many things you can acquire just by having the gall to ask for them) and so here I am: standing in my bedroom doorway, staring. My baby brother has his fist in his lap and my sheets pressed to his nose, and he's groaning rhythmically with each thrust of his hips. Dear God. It's a testament to how lost in the moment he is that Sherlock, who notices _everything_, has yet to discover my unexpected interruption.

I move quickly. In less than a second, I've stepped into the room and clicked the door shut and locked behind me. This draws his attention and he sees me- he almost cries out, until I lift my finger to my lips and he falls back against the bed, his chest heaving and his eyes wide. He's so brazen, my brother, that he doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed of himself. Instead he sits up and hisses, "You're early."

"Obviously." I flick my gaze down to his trousers, which are still hanging open, and resist the urge to lick my lips or swallow. Instead I let my stare wander back up to Sherlock's face, to the delicate tinge of pink that blooms in each cheek and the haziness of his eyes. "Finish, quickly," I say without really expecting to; for good measure, I add: "Mummy will send for us soon, I imagine."

Sherlock isn't so beside himself that he can't see through this. He smiles, slow and sneaky, and drawls, "You want to watch." It's not a question, and so I don't dignify it with any form of acknowledgment. I just sink down on the bed beside him, unclasp my cuffs, and push up my sleeves.

My brother has never been what I would call shy, but he is prone to theatrics and so I watch his slow, seemingly wary strokes with limited patience. "Do the thing properly, please," I sigh, leaning back on my hands, "or else stop boring me and go to your own room." It pleases me immensely when he scowls at me and hastens his pale little fist, working quickly but with an air of defiance in the set of his jaw. I'm aware, distantly, of the way my own trousers are tightening, but I keep my hands (now twitching, but only slightly) on the bed behind me.

He's stopped showing off now and he's thrusting into it again, his bottom lip between his teeth and his breathing ragged. His eyes seem unfocused, pale and overcast. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I have the sudden urge to touch him but it passes quickly; Sherlock has never liked being touched, for one, and while the age gap between us feels insignificant at times, my two years at uni have made it nearly insurmountable. I am twenty; Sherlock is fourteen. I have had sex (with whores, of course, but the point remains) while I doubt Sherlock has even so much as held hands (though, admittedly, neither have I…but again, the point remains). There is an entire world between us now, and while my brother is a genius, clearly, and he's able to understand so much (and so _quickly_) his social naïveté will likely only be worsened by the consummation of an incestuous relationship. Even this, allowing him to gasp and groan before me as his seed runs over his still-working fist, feels like too much. I wonder if it will be the ruin of me, this little whim of mine. I wonder if it will be the ruin of him.

"Clean yourself up," I snap, more sharply than I intend. He looks up at me, his unruly curls falling into his eyes, and there's something almost wounded in his glare.

Rather indignantly, Sherlock waves his hand (still sticky with ejaculate) in the direction of my bulging zipper and quite crassly asks, "What about yours?"

"I'm not in the habit of showing off, Sherlock," I manage with calculated airiness. I would prefer he grasp it, my poor impertinent erection, and in fact can quite easily imagine the feel of his long fingers, but I don't say that. Instead I say: "I'll leave that to you, dear brother."

"Good," he mumbles, wiping his hand indelicately on my pillowcase. "And I'll leave the voyeurism to you." In an instant he's done up his trousers and stalked to the door. Turning back to me (those gray-green eyes so stormy, the haze of arousal already cleared away) he spits, "You don't have to warn me not to tell anyone; I'm not an idiot. And tell Mummy I'm not hungry. I don't care if it upsets her."

"It will," I say, because it needs to be said.

"Don't care," Sherlock huffs, and he's gone, the door hanging open and his heavy footfalls retreating at a run down the corridor.

My shoulders relax, and the breath I've been half-holding leaves me in a slow sigh. I drop my head back and close my eyes. In a moment I'll get up, close the door, and fall back into bed. I'll touch the damp spots on my pillowcase with one hand, and the now-painful evidence of my shameful lust with the other. It won't take long; just the shifting of the cloth around it is almost more than I can bear. Then I'll get up, wash my hands, clean my face (and neck, Mummy does fret over the skin behind my ears), and go down to dinner. I'll announce Sherlock's absence; Mummy will cry into her palms, the skin of her hands near-translucent over her protruding veins and bones. I'll eat too much. I won't think about Sherlock.

But for now, it's all I can do just to breathe.


	2. Midsummer Night's Dream

_Mycroft:_

It's summer, and the air in my small childhood bedroom is thick and clinging; the window is propped open in hope of coaxing in some meager, pallid breeze, but the air remains disappointing still. I'm on my back, the covers neatly folded at my feet and my pyjamas draped over the chair by the window. Mummy would consider it improper, lying in bed in just my (cotton, though I prefer the feel of silk) pants, but what Mummy doesn't know won't hurt her.

The door doesn't creak when it opens, but I feel the air stir and instantly sit up. I needn't have done, really; even without seeing the lean silhouette in my doorway I'd have known who it was. "Get out," I hiss, falling back against my pillow as the door quietly closes.

"Can't sleep," Sherlock mumbles. I can hear the skin of his feet kissing the hardwood floors as he tiptoes towards my bed. On his hands and knees, he crawls up from the bottom of the bed (disturbing my neat pile of bedclothes) and falls on his stomach beside me, his limbs splayed.

Faking a yawn, I mutter, "I hardly see how your insomnia is any of my concern."

"You weren't sleeping, anyway," Sherlock says, and my silence is my concession. I turn over on my side and peer at him in the darkness, the feeble starlight barely highlighting his bizarre, beautiful features. He turns away, pressing his face into the pillow, and I can just barely hear him as he drones: "You aren't talking to me."

"Nonsense." I let my gaze wander back to the open window. "I've spoken to you several times since my return."

"You know what I mean," he snaps, and I do. With less venom, he says, "It's because of what happened during Christmas break." This is also true, so I let it lie. For a long moment, we're both quiet, the only noises made by the crickets out in the garden. Eventually, he sighs and says, "Are you aware that you are one of the most excruciatingly boring people I've ever had the misfortune of knowing? I've been spying on you since you've come home, and you've not done a single thing of interest except eat too much dessert and suck up to Mummy."

"Surely," I say, sliding my hand on to Sherlock's back so that I can run my thumb along the bumps of his spine, "there are better ways you could be employing your time. You could be advancing on your studies- " he scoffs, the arrogant prat, "-or attending that violin school Mummy keeps bringing up with such enthusiasm."

This takes him by surprise. "How-" He stops, his eyes closing involuntarily. "Oh. Of course. _Stupid._ You've bugged the formal dining room."

"Obvious. Can you guess which other rooms I've had bugged?"

Sherlock's eyes go wide, but he's grinning. "Let me think. The library?"

"Naturally." I smile.

"The foyer, that one's a given."

"Mmm."

"Daddy's office?"

"No, no," I say, slipping my hand down to his hip. "No one goes in there anymore except the maids; pointless."

"Okay." Sherlock bites his lip, considering. "The conservatory?"

"Unnecessary."

"But the parlor, I presume."

"Yes."

He smirks. "And my room."

"Of course." It's my turn to smirk. "But you discovered that months ago. How narcissistic of you, brother dear, to assume yours was the only room I'd like to secretly observe."

Sherlock pushes my hand away, and I'm amazed that he let me touch him for so long. He turns over on to his side, bringing his bony knees up towards his chest, and says, "Mycroft, what is sex like?"

I'm well enough acquainted with his non sequitors that I pause only to consider. "Base, but necessary," I decide at last. "Biological impulse requires it. But the act is best done with a paid attendant, otherwise one might be rewarded with messy emotional consequences."

"A whore, you mean," he says, and I nod. "Male or female?"

I lift my eyebrow at him. "You know the answer to that, Sherlock. Or have you become so lazy in your deductions?"

"Oh, I know," he quips happily. "I just wanted to hear you say it. No one else will answer me frankly like you do. They're frightened, I suppose."

"Or embarrassed. It's considered rude to ask such questions, of course."

"Dull." Sherlock leans up on his elbow and considers me for a moment. "Do you do the buggering?"

"Of course." I'm suddenly annoyed with this conversation and my brother's insipid obsession with my sex life, so I say, "Your lack of preference, in reference to gender, is to your advantage, at least."

Sherlock seems immensely pleased that I've noticed this little detail about him, and runs his slim fingers down the length of my arm. "What will you tell Mummy, when she expects you to marry?"

"I suspect I shall say, 'Yes, thank you Mummy, the arrangements have been made,' or something similar," I smile. "And then I will marry the woman I chose at age eighteen. But that will not be for another, oh," I sigh and consider, "six years, eight months. I've envisioned a spring wedding, but Mummy might have other plans."

"You're already engaged?"

"Not publicly, no." I take his hand and feel my way along each knuckle. "But I worked with Mummy to come up with a suitable arrangement ages ago. I wouldn't leave such a thing to chance. And in three years, when you're eighteen, we'll find you a blushing bride as well. Though I suspect we'll postpone your marriage until you're thirty, at least. In my estimation, it will take you longer to 'sow your wild oats', so to speak."

"You're mad!" Sherlock laughs and tugs his hand out of mine, running it through his wild hair. "I'm never getting married."

"You will. It's the proper thing to do." Seriously, I add, "Mummy and I allow your eccentricities to an extent, but it will never do for my career to have you running about as carelessly and lawlessly as you please. After uni, you'll be given a certain amount of time in which you may do as you please, but you _will _shape up when you're told."

Sherlock sits up, his eyes glowing in the faint light. "You honestly think you can control me," he whispers, incredulous and amused.

I shake my head and toy with his knee. "I know I can."

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock is straddling me, his hands on my stomach. He dips his head low and whispers, his lips nearly brushing mine, "You're absolutely mad." And then his mouth is on mine, the kiss deep and wet and clearly unskilled.

"Sherlock," I groan in a way that is meant to be discouraging, but my point is lost in the knuckle-whitening grip of my hands on his slowly circling hips. It's embarrassing and uncouth, the way I'm gasping (and the way my hips are suddenly bucking of their own accord, my erection pulsing horribly) and Sherlock clearly relishes it. He runs his tongue along my lips and makes small, deep-throated noises that vibrate through me painfully. When I come (and I _do _come, quickly and with an intensity I'd not been aware of possessing) he laughs, low and hungry, and trails kisses along my ear. I press my mouth to the dewy white skin of his neck and breathe him in, my fingers winding their way into his damp black curls.

"You see," he whispers, still slowly rocking in my lap. "You can't control me at all. But I've discovered your weak point, haven't I?"

He has, I've acknowledged that to myself already, but I don't want to think about it. Instead I kiss his clavicles carefully and sigh, "You're an appallingly bad kisser."

This elicits another deep, dark laugh from Sherlock, and he lifts up so that he can look into my eyes. Smiling, he drawls, "Then teach me."


	3. A Change in Play

_Sherlock:_

"Would you consider yourself a sexual deviant?"

Mycroft looks up at me with an amused smile before turning his attention back to some preposterously large and exceedingly droll textbook, the cover archaic and scuffed. "Aside from our occasional, homosexual, incestuous romps," he says mildly, turning a page, "and the fact of your age and its apparent irrelevance…no, I should say not."

Leave it to Mycroft to cancel out all the good stuff. "I should hardly consider a touch of voyeuristic masturbation and frottage to be 'romps', brother dear," I say, in a reasonably decent mimicry of Mycroft's stuffy, pompous manner of speaking. My efforts are rewarded with a dark look and a somewhat exaggerated page turn.

He's boring me. I lie back in the cool dirt and sigh. Mummy had the servants prepare the patio for us (a hot day like this, there's no way we'd both stay inside all day) but despite the comfortable furniture and handsome floral arrangements, the patio is hardly a respite from the heat. Thus we've found our way to the shade of a great elm, some distance from the main house, armed only with a stack of books and a blanket (which Mycroft insisted upon, the dandy). (As for me, I've ignored the blanket in favour of lying directly in the dirt. I don't care anything about these clothes, nor do I understand Mummy's incessant nagging about fastidiousness. We have _servants_, and _money_. Why should we behave as though that doesn't make a difference?)

I wriggle in the dirt just to make a point, and Mycroft (without even looking up, the bastard) sighs, "Don't be contrary, Sherlock. You're becoming tiresome." No one else can read his face like I can, so no one else would notice the hint of a smile there when he adds, "_Frottage_. Such language. And you left out the exhaustive snogging lesson."

"Exhaustive, or exhausting?" I sneer, just because I feel like it. It was actually rather enjoyable, our midnight escapade, once Mycroft showed me how to do it properly. It gave me a strange feeling, like I'd stolen sips of Mummy's brandy again.

Mycroft's voice is quiet as he points out, "Cured your insomnia, for what it's worth."

I know when I'm beaten…but I don't like losing. Sitting up, I smile nastily. "So, what is it, Mycroft?" I trail my dirty fingers down the back of his clean white shirt, echoing the way he'd touched me the night before. "Is it love? Or just the thrill of paedophilia? I know how you've always admired the Greeks." His mask slips for just a fraction of a second, and my grin spreads. "Ohh, I see. It's both, is it? You love me _and_ you're attracted to my youth. Mycroft! You're despicable."

He sits up suddenly, his mouth small and his jaw set. "I love you, Sherlock," he growls, and I don't think I've ever seen his eyes look quite so hard, "but never -_never_- make the mistake of imagining I'm _in _love with you."

"Is there a difference?"

"Quite." Mycroft's relaxed some, and he settles his back against the tree, scooping his book up and settling it in his lap. "Were I in love with you, I would find you irresistible. As it is I can scarcely stand you."

"Hateful words from a hateful git," I laugh, hopping to my feet. I snag his book and put out my tongue because I know how much my childish antics bother him. I suspect that if I derived any actual pleasure from such behavior, he would ignore it entirely. But because I'm bored (almost dreadfully bored, almost _dangerously_ bored) and because we both know I'll lose interest in mere moments, he indulges me. There's a brief chase across the lawn, his book held aloft over my head and a string of bawdy insults dripping from my grinning mouth, and then he's caught me, pressed me up against the old wood and peeling paint of the garden shed, stopped me laughing with his mouth against mine. We're nearly the same height now but he hitches me up to my tiptoes anyway, my left leg automatically coming up and bracing against the wall. (I imagine, fleetingly, the residue that will be left on my crisp, sky-blue cotton shirt. Green paint chips. Cedar splinters gone gray with age. Moss. Dirt. A hint of pollen. A stain or two of dark green chloroform. The smashed remains of an unseen and insignificant insect.)

His hands bring my mind back; he's sliding them under my shirt, their damp weight traveling up my chest. This is new, and combined with his mouth (which is ceaseless in its wandering and heat) and the press of his erection against my inner thigh…it's simply too much. I can't line up all the sensory input. The air is thick; Mycroft's breath is lurid; somewhere, in the distance, a piece of linen is snapping in the wind; a bird cries overhead; my skin is damp and _vibrating _under Mycroft's fingers; Mummy's prize roses expel their cloying scent. Too much, too much. This isn't like before, when Mycroft was all pliant gentleness underneath me. This is frightening. I can _feel_ everything.

"Mycroft, please," I mumble, and he takes that as encouragement, hitching my leg up around his waist and running his hand down the inside of my thigh. Oh God, it's too much, and my eyes are shut as tightly as I can manage but I can still _feel _and _hear _and _smell _and the overabundance of sensation is making me ill. "Mycroft…"

"Shh." He pins my hands against the wall with his and kisses me deeply again before trailing his mouth down my neck, nipping my shoulder with his teeth. I'm shaking, I'm shaking, and there's a dog barking out in the woods and a woman singing in the kitchen and my skin is buzzing and Mycroft won't _stop _even though I'm begging him, wordlessly begging him to please, please, please let me go.

As if in answer to my silent plea, Mycroft steps back and releases my hands. I can't stand; my knees are trembling horribly and any strength I had before is gone. Pitifully, I slump down to the ground and hitch a sob into my filthy hands.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft drops down into a kneel beside me, taking my hands from my face and holding them carefully (as though I'm so breakable, as though I hadn't asked for this). The concern on his face, so open and readable right now, disgusts me.

My voice shaky and breathless, I manage, "Too fast," and something awful and dark inside of me unfurls at his sudden, smug laugh.

"I see," he answers, even though he doesn't see, and I've always counted on Mycroft being the only person besides myself that can. "Well, you've always been that way. A game only suits you when it's your turn and you're winning. As soon as the play changes hands you connive of some furtive means of quitting, or cheating." He stand up, smirking, and brushes the dirt from his hands (the dirt from _my _hands, now staining his) on his black trousers. "Very well, Sherlock. I've spent my go. Your turn. Or is the game off?"


	4. Variants of Blue

_Sherlock:_

The game isn't off, and Mycroft knows it.

I'm out on the grounds (and after dark, Mummy would be scandalized if she knew; lucky for me she's fallen into a pharmaceutical-induced slumber and couldn't be roused by anything less than an air raid siren), stalking silently along the many footpaths that wind over our sprawling estate. I'm on my fourth cigarette of the evening, and the nicotine is making my fingers twitch but it's also lining my thoughts up in a way that no other chemical is capable of doing. (Or, at least, any that I've tried thus far. I don't like Mummy's prescription pills as they leave me feeling hollow and unsettled, but one of the brutish imbeciles at school had mentioned- not to me, never to me, I'm not to be trusted- the idea of crushing an opiate-based tablet and introducing the newly-made powder into the body via the nostril…a curious suggestion, and one I've been mentally toying with for months.)

My thoughts, of course, are on Mycroft. Mycroft is a four-cigarette problem, at the very least. This game of ours is making me sleepless (even more so than usual) and unable to think of anything else. Each experiment I've begun (including the one with the live cultures and the observation of decomposing animal tissue upon their induction, which _should_ have been, by all rights, unerringly fascinating) has been abandoned, chucked aside because my attention has wandered, as always, to the problem of my indefatigably placid brother. I want to shatter that mask of his. I want to prove myself more clever than him (in some ways, I want to prove this _to_ myself) while easily bringing him under my power. Anyone else would be toppled easily…but Mycroft is a challenge. Mycroft knows me, knows my methods, and it won't be an easy job, manipulating him. And that's even without mentioning the unbearably embarrassing moment behind the garden shed two weeks ago, my stupid tears cutting streaks through the dirt on my face. I lost control. It won't happen again.

There are bats in the woods; I can hear them moving, the noise similar to that of birds but not quite the same. I stop and listen to them, taking a last drag from my cigarette before flicking it the ground. Mycroft is driving me mad. Very well. I consider it my brotherly duty to return the favor.

x

I've convinced Mycroft to take me down to the pond that sits near the edge of our property. We took the horses, not wanting the ride such a distance on bicycles (and Mycroft being far too lazy to walk it). I like riding, when it suits me, but I hate caring for the beasts. Ordinarily I would drag an attendant along to see to them, but my plans for today require seclusion and besides, Mycroft seems to gain some measure of joy from them so it's probable that he didn't mind having them put in his charge.

We're undressing, the warm air balmy against our bare skin. Mycroft isn't fool enough that he doesn't realize this is part of the game; his eyes never leave me. Likewise, mine never leave him. He's gotten soft at uni, the flesh of his stomach pale and doughy. I don't mind, really. His physiology is irrelevant to me; it's his mind that draws me, his smug smile, the condescension in his voice. But: I recognize this is not the way Mycroft perceives me. I'm not so far removed from normality that I can't recognize aesthetic appeal, even if it does little for me. My features are pleasant to the eye, I imagine; Mycroft appreciates them at the very least. Good, let him look.

The day is cerulean: sky; pool; veins, in the wrist of the hand that Mycroft tentatively dunks underwater. "Cool enough," he says unnecessarily (of course I read it on his face, in the slow bend of his fingers underwater and the relaxation of his spine). Standing up straight, Mycroft looks at me, his expression bored but patient. "Well?"

We swim for as long as it suits me. Mycroft is clever, but too eager; he watches me constantly, on edge for the moment when my turn will begin. He doesn't realize I've already resumed play, that this torturous wait was not only calculated but, perhaps, more important than what awaits.

After a long while, Mycroft slides out of the water, leaving his feet dangling into the shallow depths at the edge of the pond. In my mind I see the little glass timekeeper we use when playing chess, the sand drifting rapidly now, almost spent. It's time to make my move. I swim up until I'm nearly on my belly, sliding in right between his legs and mirroring the smirk that's settled on Mycroft's lips. I run my hands up his legs (pale, dark hair slicked down with water that musses under my fingertips) and pause them on his inner thighs, my fingers kneading slowly.

"Sherlock," he says, a touch of protestation in his voice (as if he can fool me) as he puts his hands over mine and pushes them roughly away.

I shake my head. "It's my turn, Mycroft. You said so yourself."

"Most regrettably," Mycroft says, putting his fingers under my chin and tilting my face up. He forces me to meet his eyes, and already I can read too much in them: concern (for me, for himself, for Mummy and his career) and hunger quietly battling behind his irises. "You are still so young."

"I'm not." My voice is embarrassingly fierce; I need to regain my footing. I slip my hands back into his lap, groping higher now and noting with satisfaction the sudden tightness around his eyes. He doesn't stop me this time, though he does half-heartedly raise his hand when I press my palm against his erection. Still, he doesn't stop me. I keep my eyes on his as I drop my head and nuzzle against it, pressing my lips carefully to his frenulum.

"Sherlock," he gasps, but there's no warning in it this time. He's half-hard already, and I can feel the blood pulsing through his veins as I move my mouth slowly down his shaft, my lips parted and my tongue just barely touching his skin. "Oh, Sherlock," he sighs again, his hand coming up and tangling in my damp hair. It stings a little, the way he pulls, but his face is such a treat that I don't even mind. He's coming entirely undone, my brother, and when I slide the tip of my tongue along the underside of his penis (I can taste the pond water, and salty sweat, and something else, something musky) Mycroft's eyes flutter and he bites his lip and that's it: I've practically already won. His face is completely open, unguarded, flush; his cock is throbbing in my hand. I could have him, if I wanted him.

I'm already bored.

Heaving a small sigh, I push back into the water and slip under, and when I come back up Mycroft is staring at me incredulously. He looks rather ridiculous, his erection so stiff and red, the head of his cock pressing into the soft white flesh of his stomach. I'm not sure I've ever seen anyone look so flustered, and certainly never a Holmes. I laugh and brush my hair from my eyes. "Get dressed, Mycroft," I yawn, relaxing so that I'm floating on my back. "Prepare the horses. I've got something on at the manor, an experiment I've been working on. I think it requires rather more attention than this." I peek at him, and I'm glad to see my cool dismissal has been received as I meant it: _You've lost, Mycroft. Game over. _I'm positively beaming as he struggles to stuff his still-stiff penis into his riding pants, his jaw clenched and his eyes dark.

It's a sorry thing, when a good game ends, but I do so enjoy winning.

**A/N: Don't worry, there are eight more chapters and an epilogue to come. This isn't the end!**


	5. Avoidance

_Mycroft:_

It's childish, really, but for the last week and a half I have been very carefully avoiding Sherlock. I've spent most of my time with Mummy, pretending with practiced ease that her long-winded speeches about charity benefits and local gossip don't bore me into open-eyed slumber and drinking brandy well before the lunch bell ever rings. Tomorrow I begin my month-long apprenticeship with one of Mummy's friends- a pleasant old chap with Parliament connections- and then it's back to uni, for my final year. I can't wait to leave this stuffy manor, to free myself from the small-boned woman in the armchair beside me and the hot shame (and anger, I won't deny the anger that runs hot through my blood when I think of his smug grin at the pond) that runs down my spine when I see so much as my brother's shadow.

We're discussing him now, Mummy and I, the two of us planning his future in quiet tones beside a frankly unneeded fire. Mummy's partial to the library, especially for talks such as this, and that's where we find ourselves now.

"I'd like to see him at Oxford," Mummy sniffs. Her voice makes her seem twenty years older, and bloodless. "Perhaps your old professors will hear the surname and show him some kindness."

"It's possible, Mummy," I say with carefully adept deference, "that Oxford may be a touch…_traditional_ for Sherlock. Might we look into Cambridge?"

"Hmph." Mummy taps her long fingers on the arm of her chair, her pale eyes glittering. "There's hardly a difference, is there?" Her fingers begin to beat a more aggressive beat as she says, her voice low and sharp, "I wonder, Mycroft, if your unwillingness to see Sherlock at Oxford represents some lack of confidence on your part. Do you not believe my youngest son to be every bit as capable as yourself?"

"That isn't it at all, Mummy," I say immediately, though in some ways it is true. Sherlock is brilliant, nearly as brilliant as I am myself, but he lacks long-reaching ambition and the ability to speak with a slick tongue. (Unfortunate phrasing; I shift uncomfortably and push all thoughts of Sherlock's heart-shaped lips from my mind.) "I just want what is best for him. I worry about him constantly."

"As do I," she snaps, rising slowly from her chair. It's a wonder her bones don't slice right through her paper-thin skin as she moves. "One day he will only have you to rely upon, Mycroft, and I should hope that you will put your bloodline over your pride, whether from obligation or love I hardly care." Mummy closes her eyes for a moment and then walks slowly, stiffly towards the door. "Don't wake me before you go. I'll ring you, should I need to speak to you." The heavy door closes behind her, leaving only the faint, sickly sweet aroma of her powdery perfume and the beginning of a headache behind my right eye.

I'm pinching the bridge of my nose and contemplating the long staircase that leads towards my bedroom when the library door slides open once more. "Shall I ring for Lucinda, Mummy?" I call, not looking up, but the floorboard creaks and I realize at once that I've called it wrong. "Sherlock?"

Of course it's him; the sound of his footsteps is enough to guess at his height, weight, stride. I swirl the last of my brandy and toss it back in one go before setting the little glass tumbler on the side-table and sighing. Sherlock sidles up beside me, all long limbs and wild hair, and at once he's sprawled across my lap, his arms around my neck and his face buried in my hair.

"I don't understand it, Mycroft," he says softly, and I let out my breath, rub his back gently. "I _won_. I won, didn't I? So why doesn't this feel like winning? You're leaving and I should be glad, but I'm not."

There's no need for him to clarify, and even less need for me to answer. Our bodies are explaining things well enough on their own; his warmth in my lap is making my throat go dry, and I can tell from the tightening of his fingers on my skin that he feels much the same. If this is a game, if it ever was, then we've both lost.

Sherlock lifts his head and looks into my eyes, his gaze searching. Whatever he finds there causes him to dip his head and brush his lips against mine, a whisper of a kiss. There's true heat behind it, though, unbelievable heat that makes me shudder and kiss him again, less chastely. He twists in my lap until he's straddling me, his knees pushing into the back of the chair and his lean fingers slipping up under my shirt. There's no point in pretense now; I don't try to stop him. My hands clench around his hips as I suck his bottom lip.

We're both gasping as his shaky hands fall to my belt. He undoes my trousers with unpracticed clumsiness (the button infuriates him, the zipper catches twice) before sliding his hot palm down and running his fingertips up the length of my cock. It's good, it's so good that I'm almost mindless with it already, and I know that this time he won't tease me, this time he won't run away. I can feel it in the heat of his damp skin, hear it in the hitch of his breath. Sherlock's eyes are wide and terrified and longing, and I know he's mine, all mine, whether either of us like it or not.

"I'm done fighting, Sherlock," I mutter, my lips pressed to the hollow of his neck. "Let me finish this."

He nods, a messy sort of movement that sends his curls askew and makes his eyes look even wider. It's enough. I lift him up (long, lithe legs circling my waist) and bring us both down to the floor, his thighs hot against my hips and his long neck arched under my teeth. I'm not one for obscenities, but the thought runs through my mind unbidden: _I'm going to fuck him. I'll be the only one; he'll never let anyone else this close. _I work his pants down around his legs (his prick is lean and long, a minor mirror of his bodily stature) and touch him thoughtfully, watching his face. I don't know if Sherlock enjoys this, my touch. It almost seems to overwhelm him, and his eyes are wet and pale. But he craves it, he clearly craves it, so I don't stop until I think he's too close. I slip my fingers, slick with pre-ejaculate, into his mouth and command him to suck them before spitting into my other palm (disgusting, but I cannot and will not leave to find more a more suitable solution) and stroking myself sloppily. Fingers sufficiently moist, I withdraw them from Sherlock's mouth and slide them between the cleft of his buttocks.

He makes a small noise as I ease my middle finger inside of him, a cross between a gasp and a cry that makes my cock twitch and my breath quicken. I watch him wince and grit against it and I know my face must be floridly red but I don't care, not now, not with Sherlock writhing beneath me, the glow of the fire casting odd shadows across his delicate face. I ease in a second finger, relish the little groan that slips from his open mouth and the flutter of his eyelids. Sex is normally such a perfunctory task, as dull and necessary as sleep and not half as delightful as a good meal, but this…this is new. This is different. I want Sherlock with such desperation that I think if I don't fuck him soon my heart might burst.

"I'm going to take you now, Sherlock," I mumble, lifting his hips and dragging his body to mine. I'm already sliding the head of my cock along the line of him, rutting into the soft flesh of his bottom and panting wildly. Somewhat cruelly, I ask, "Do you want me inside of you?"

Sherlock's eyes are closed tightly and his hands are clenched into the plush fabric of the rug beneath us, but he nods, the motion of it so small that it almost seems like a trick of light.

"Say it," I hiss, pressing into him fractionally. He groans, claws at the carpet as I still. "Say it," I demand again, but my voice is gentle, almost loving.

I kiss his ankle, drag my tongue along the arch of his foot, and he pants: "I…I want you…_inside _me." His voice is so deep, so drunken with lust that I can't thrust into him for fear of coming almost instantaneously. When I've regained control of myself I begin to press in slowly, my hand firm on his stomach and stilling him as the other holds the base of my penis and steadies it.

I'm halfway inside him when the door opens.


	6. Black Tie Affair

_Mycroft:_

I haven't seen or spoken to Sherlock in nearly five months, but the heat of our last evening together still blazes in my memory, perhaps even more so now that I'm home once more. I'm in the library again, but tonight it's full of people: Mummy's Christmas charity ball. I hardly see them. My mind keeps drifting, wandering back to that night…

_The library door opens; Sherlock and I turn our heads at the same instant, both of us knowing there is no hiding what we've done, what we're doing._

"_Mr. Holmes, sir! Pardon me, sir, I meant no harm! I-I only came to put out the fire, as per the wishes of Mrs. Holmes." Relief floods through me so quickly that I have to close my eyes against it. Sherlock has scrambled out from beneath me and is tugging on his clothes with an indignant scowl. His lips are swollen, the colour high in his face, and I almost want to send my Mr. Brimley out into the hall and finish what I started._

_Instead, I stand and smarten up as best as possible as Brimley waits, trembling a little (I imagine he thinks I can't see the tremor in his hands, or the miniscule shuddering of his lower lip, but of course I can) and politely keeping his head bowed and his eyes on his shining black shoes. "Very well, Brimley," I say, my voice as steady and commanding as it ever was. "And when you've finished, I'll have a word. Sherlock, go to bed." I don't look at Sherlock, but I don't need to. I can sense him quavering beside me before he dashes off, nearly bumping Brimley on the way._

_When Sherlock is gone and the fire is put out, I set Mr. Brimley down and pour him a brandy, and I make things clear. I'm a reasonable man, and I know from past experience and innate sensibility that Brimley can be trusted. (I loathe to consider what I would have done, what I would have needed to do, should anyone else have opened that door. I imagine Mummy's girl Lucinda, or Mummy herself, and I curse my lust and stupidity anew.) Brimley listens to my reasoning quite carefully, as I knew he would, and when he leaves the library nearly an hour later I know it is with a sick heart, but also with a significantly more hefty retirement fund and a touch more power than he, old fool that he is, realizes._

"That's filthy, Mycroft," Sherlock drawls from beside me, drawing me from my thoughts. "Indulging such salacious memories when we've so many guests. Really, you ought to be ashamed."

I tear my gaze from the spot on the carpet where Sherlock became _mine_ and look at him. It's only been five months, but five months to an adolescent is a lifetime, and he's changed. Some of his boyishness has melted away, the sharpness of his features now more clear than ever. The summer's honey glow has faded from his fair skin and been replaced by a schoolboy's pasty pallor, and his unruly curls have been trimmed (recently, Mummy must have had it done in preparation for this party) back to reveal the brilliant, almost frightening intelligence in his eyes. His lips are still full, however, and soft, and he looks exceptionally dashing in his tuxedo. The smile that doesn't quite touch his lips as he watches me take him in is enough to quicken my pulse. "Sherlock," I beam, meeting his eyes. "Mummy tells me you've been doing remarkably well at school. Bravo."

Sherlock waves his hand impatiently, nearly spilling his champagne. "School is a trifle, and a dull one at that."

"And your violin lessons? Mummy said you've been playing expertly."

My Sherlock, always so quick to the point. "Mycroft," he hisses, leaning close, "don't bore me. You know full well that we have more important matters to discuss."

"Oh?" Of course I do, but discussing my brother's virginity (and the fact that I took it, and incompletely at that) is not something that can or should be discussed during a charity ball. "Yes, I suspect so. But now is hardly the time, wouldn't you agree?"

"You leave in the morning," Sherlock growls, his foot tapping impatiently.

I give him one of my signature sickly-sweet smiles. "And surely our discussion can be had before breakfast?"

"I never eat breakfast," he huffs, "and I rarely wake before noon unless I must. Why can't we talk now?"

"Because, dear brother," I sigh, my eyes rolling as I drop my voice, "we have a house full of the most elite and important people in Britain, minus the Queen herself. Surely you remember our last lesson in propriety?"

"If you're talking about Brimley, I'd hardly call that a lesson." Sherlock chews on his bottom lip. "Unless you meant for me to learn that everyone has a price and all problems can be solved by throwing money at them until they go away." In response to my stiff-jawed silence, Sherlock clutches my sleeve and whispers, "Meet me in the west corridor, second floor. The cupboard beneath the stairs. Midnight. All right?"

I consider saying no. I consider saying yes and meaning no. But in the end I merely mumble, "Yes. Fine. If I'm able."

That satisfies him. He tips his champagne flute to his mouth, his eyes never wandering from mine, and drains it neatly before slamming the glass down and sweeping from the room, taking all the heat in it with him.

x

I do as I must, and as Mummy expects: I shake all the right hands, speak to all the right people. I am charming and flattering, humble but clear-spoken and intelligent. I show polite interest in the unwed ladies of my age and harmlessly flirt with women who remind me of my mother, all pale skin and sharp eyes. It means nothing, and it means everything. Father would have been proud, or so I like to think; Mummy only watches with her lips pressed together and her eyes narrowed, the set of her shoulders telling me that for all my efforts, I am not good enough.

At the stroke of midnight, I politely disengage myself from the pretty countess with whom I'd been discussing French politics and steal away to the servant's stairs. I follow them until they let out into the west corridor, then hurriedly pad to the nearly-invisible cupboard under the stairs and rap my knuckles against it three times. Sherlock peeks out at me, and then I'm being tugged inside and the door is rapidly closed behind me.

We don't speak. Our mouths find each other in the dark; our hands grasp and grope and tug until we're both gasping with the effort. It's stupid, impossibly stupid, and I push Sherlock away after only moments. I check the latch, let my breath settle.

"Sherlock," I say, and I'm embarrassed to hear myself. I sound so hungry for him, so foolishly besotted. "We must stop this. This- this _game_ of ours is through. You said so yourself; you won. Please," my voice drops to a whisper, "let it go."

I can't see him, but I can hear the rustle of fabric as Sherlock steps towards me again and slips his arms around my waist. "I'm not playing at anything, Mycroft," he mumbles against my jaw, trailing kisses along the line of it. "I swear it. I need this."

"Then get it elsewhere." My voice is more forceful then I intend, and it propels him backwards.

I can hear the edge of anger in Sherlock's own voice as he whispers, "Do you honestly expect me to…to defile myself? Let some whore take me, hmm, or one of the disgusting boys at school?" More pleadingly, he adds, "There's no one else for me, Mycroft. No one. I know you feel the same way; I can see it in your face every time you look at me. Don't deny it."

I don't, God help me. I don't deny it. Instead I bridge the small distance between us and take him into my arms, groaning at the easy way his mouth opens to mine. It feels as though the months between July and December fall away and all the heat and hunger and need of that night in the library comes rushing painfully back. I'm rough with him, not because I'm angry or because I wish to dominate him; I'm only rough because I can't be gentle, not now, not when I want him so badly and he wants me just as much. We undress each other frantically, yanking at fabric and buttons with unbridled desperation. I ache with it, and when he drops to his knees and takes me into his mouth (all at once, and I get the sudden image of him practicing this skill in his room late at night on various phallic objects, most probably fruit) it's all I can do to stifle a moan behind my hand.

"Sherlock." I'm nearly incoherent with lust; Sherlock's mouth is hot, wet, persistent. "_Sherlock_." I clutch at his hair, at the curls that are still so soft and slightly damp with perspiration. My hips are bucking slightly and the thought of that, of me fucking my brother's mouth in a hall cupboard while half of England (the ones that count, at least) eats hors d'oeuvres just below our feet is enough that I have to push him away or risk becoming useless to him for the rest of the evening.

"Get up," I pant. "Turn around, quickly, for God's sake, quickly." He does as I tell him, and I bend him slightly. "Yes, there, put your hands against the wall."

"Wh-"

I push his legs apart so that his stance is widened and I hear his hands settle upon the wall with two soft, muffled thuds. My cock is still wet from Sherlock's mouth, and I spit into my palm, slide it between his arse-cheeks. I need this too badly to wait; I don't bother with loosening him with my fingers or opening him carefully. In the blindness of pure, unfiltered lust I find myself buried inside him almost instantly, only the ragged cry that tumbles from his mouth able to clear away some of the haze that has enveloped me.

"Shh," I whisper, hoping I sound somewhat soothing. He's so tight, so perfect, the sharp bones of his hips taut beneath my hands. "Arch into it, Sherlock. There, that's better, mmm?" I'm stroking into him almost lazily, some of my desperation sated by his warmth. Sherlock is a good pupil; he obeys me quite readily when I tell him to be quiet, to bend a bit more, there, just like that, for God's sake be quiet, arch, arch your back Sherlock, yes-

The sound of him furiously touching himself beneath me is my undoing. I ease out of him as gently as I can (still earning a soft hiss and a whimper as I leave him) and finish with a groan into what feels like a century-old woolen coat. When I'm able I lean back over him, my cock harmlessly lying against his bottom, and take him into my hand. I only need tug at him a few times before he's pressing his palm against his mouth and shuddering against me, semen (sticky, hot) hastily filling my hand. I don't let go until he's fully limp and even then I'm reluctant to drag myself away. My face is pressed into the nape of his neck, my breathing heavy and broken. Sherlock is twitching, shuddering, panting so hard that each breath almost sounds like a moan.

"Quiet, Sherlock," I mutter, kissing the knots of his spine as my fingers flutter over his stomach. "Quiet, quiet." A small din rises from downstairs- the pop of a champagne cork, mingled laughter, a cheer- and abruptly I come back, somewhat, to my wits. I stand and yank the wool coat down, tossing it to Sherlock. "Clean yourself up." My fingers are shaking as I dress myself again, cursing our collective stupidity and hoping against hope that I can find an empty lavatory in which I might make myself presentable.

I can hear Sherlock dressing, too, more slowly than myself, and his voice is muddled, hazy as he sighs, "Don't go back yet. Let's stay here awhile longer."

"People will notice my absence," I say sharply. It's neigh impossible to tie a bowtie in the dark, I've discovered. "I will be lucky if they have not noticed already."

"Ah, of course." Sherlock is bitter; the sounds of his dressing have become more harsh, more hurried. "Back to business. Musn't let anything prevent you from simpering and schmoozing like a prat; how silly of me to expect otherwise."

"I am trying to protect our future!" My voice betrays the sudden rush of anger I feel, the intense desire I have to grab Sherlock's shoulders and shake him. Father entrusted this to me, on his deathbed; I have a duty to our name, to his memory, to Mummy's bloodless lips that press together every time she sees me and Sherlock's rebellious, impossible moods that will one day leave him with nothing if I do not secure what I can, while I can. The responsibility presses in my chest like an actual weight, leaving me breathless. "I know it's of little importance to you-"

"You're right, it is." I hear him putting on his shoes. "And since we're being honest, I'd _honestly _prefer if you didn't bore me to tears talking about it. Go, please, toadie up to the elite and lick their shoes; just leave me in peace."

My throat is tight and my voice is thick as I rasp, "We can't do this again, Sherlock." He stops breathing, stills. "We can't. It will ruin us. If anyone were to find out-"

"You'll buy them, same as Brimley!" My words have left him stricken; good. He should feel some measure of concern, of fear. Perhaps he can understand a fraction of the pressure I'm under. "You worry too much about the consequences."

"And you don't worry enough!" I slide the latch and pause. I hadn't wanted to mention this, I truly hadn't, but… "I'm not coming back at the start of summer. I have a job placement in London, and I won't be able to come home until Mummy's birthday, at least."

"August?" I try to pretend that the pain in his voice doesn't break my heart.

"At least."

"Mycroft…"

I shake my head, push the door open just a crack. The corridor is empty and I make my escape. Whatever Sherlock had to say, I don't want or need to hear it. I have to do what's best for both of us; if he must resent me, then he must. But I swear to myself, in this moment, that I will do what's right. No more foolishness. One of us must make the hard decisions, and I always knew, from the moment I held infant Sherlock in my arms and stared into his red, tear-streaked face, that it would all come down to me.


	7. Waiting In Vein

_Sherlock:_

It's astounding, how little the people around me can see. I can't imagine what must run through their stupid little minds sometimes. For instance, while the signs seem very obvious to me, no one has yet called me out on my new little cocaine habit. Mummy made mention of my seemingly erratic violin concertos, but while I thought at first that must be some allusion to the fact that I rarely sleep, almost never eat, and have become fond of playing the violin only during the twilight hours- and that these facts must align to form some conclusion (in this instance, that I am using cocaine)- it appears this is not the case. Mummy is as blind as the rest. I'm careful, of course, because I have no desire to upset Mummy or to involve Mycroft in any capacity. But it still disgusts me, how insipid all the people are around me.

Stupidly, because of this, I've been lulled into a false sense of security. Mummy used to be like me, like Mycroft, until Daddy died, so the fact that she can't _see_, I felt, must mean that Mycroft would be equally blind.

He isn't.

It's Mummy's birthday, and we're out in the garden taking tea. Mycroft looks dreadful. Well, no, I imagine to other people he looks quite well-to-do, but I can't stand the sight of him. Three piece suit, pocket watch, slick smile. He's taken a fancy to using an umbrella as a sort of cane (and why any healthy twenty-two year old should need a cane is less obvious, though in Mycroft's case it's clear the prop brings him some form of self-importance) and he's combed his hair beyond the point of meticulously and breaching into obsessively. It's hateful. Worse still is the way he looks at me. We're always polite to a fault in front of Mummy, so he's not said or done anything untoward…but I can see it, in eyes that seem to have gotten darker during his months in London. He knows about the cocaine and he's just biding his time until he can lord it over me.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says, dabbing carefully at his mouth with his silk napkin. He's consumed five (five!) cucumber sandwiches, and if he thinks I haven't noticed him eyeing the canapés he's gone mad. "Mummy says you've been working on your own…_compositions _lately. I should so love to hear one, perhaps after dinner?"

It doesn't do to scowl in front of Mummy, but from Mycroft's smirk I can tell he knows I'd like to. "They're works in progress," I say simply, tugging the canapé tray towards me. His eyes narrow.

"It's so good to have both of my boys home," Mummy sighs, folding her hands in her lap, and I have to hold back a sigh. I'm braced for a rant, and I expect we'll hear it in five, four, three, two… "Although, Mycroft, I suspect your time could be better applied. I had hoped to see you in a more senior position by autumn, and yet here we are."

Mycroft, that old pro, doesn't even glance at me. He just smiles that despicable, tight smile he's adopted and says, slowly, "Well, yes, Mummy, I had expected the same. But there has been some rearranging-"

"Save your excuses for some other old fool," Mummy snaps, and I grin at him. Mummy's gaze wanders to me and grows softer, fonder. I know she prefers me, and I know it's because I look like Daddy (except the eyes; I've got her eyes) whereas Mycroft doesn't like any of us. He looks a bit like batty Uncle Bartholomew, but that's hardly in his favour. "Sherlock, darling," she coos, patting my hand (and I can feel that she's reapplied her lotion five times today; that she still wears her wedding ring to bed, just like she's done each night since Daddy died; that she isn't as ill as she thinks; and that it's been nearly a week since she's been to the manicurist's). "Why don't you tell Mycroft about school? I'm sure he'd love to hear all about that chemistry project you did in the spring."

"Oh, yes," Mycroft says, and his smile is positively predatory, "I suspected you might have been mixing some interesting solutions lately. Please, do tell."

I catch his meaning, even if Mummy doesn't, but I don't let it show on my face. "It's nothing to do with solutions, Mycroft; my project was about maths." And then I drone on until I think they're both sufficiently bored before excusing myself from the table.

x

I started out with Mummy's pills, crushing them like the boy at school had told his stupid friend to try. I quite liked the feeling (it was like silence, almost, but a colourful silence, as if the world were made of watercolour) but I realized quickly that such a habit could never be regularly sustained. I could skim off a pill here and there without problem…but I didn't think "a pill here and there" would suit for long. (And I was quite right. But then, I find I often am.) The leap to cocaine, thusly, was not a difficult one. I am a careful buyer, and I am an even more careful user. Initially I had snorted the stuff, but I found the minor irritation of my nasal passages to be distasteful. I've only just recently switched to injections. Now I think I've got the system nearly perfected. A seven percent solution, a brand new hypodermic needle for each injection, a carefully chosen location of the body (right now, for example, I am inserting the needle between my toes): err on the side of caution, as they say.

Mycroft walks in to my bedroom just after I've hidden away all my supplies (and while I don't imagine he would _never _find them, I do think it could take him quite awhile) and flounced on my back, draping over the bed. The colours are starting to seep in now, and the quality of the sounds around me has become delightfully muffled. When Mycroft speaks, it's as though his voice is coming to me through a dream.

"Drugs, Sherlock?" He's playing at nonchalance, but the flare of his nostrils suggests he's rather furious. It's funny, almost. And so easy to see. Why doesn't everyone else see it? He's still playing at bored when he adds, "How plebian."

"Really?" I smile at the dreamy quality of my voice. "I've always thought cocaine was terribly bourgeois."

It's positively delightful, the way his jaw clenches. "When Mummy finds out about this, Sherlock, it will break her heart."

"Oh, dear me." I sit up (float up, fly up) and face him. "Are you going to tell her?"

Mycroft paces to the window and folds his arms, his gaze thoughtful. "No," he says at last, long after I stopped wondering. It takes me a moment to connect his statement to my question (but when they _do _connect it's marvelous, more so than anything I've ever done) and I find I'm still thinking as he goes on, "It wouldn't do. She can't do anything for you and it would only hurt her. Besides," he turns to me, and I can see something of the brother I loved under all that pomposity, all that sickeningly fraudulent casualness, "I wonder if this isn't, in part, my fault."

"Oh, that's cute!" And it is, it really is. It's cute that he thinks what happened between us (I don't call it sex, I just don't, although I don't know what else it could be called) has affected me in any way. "Brother dear, you really are a laugh. But please, unburden your conscience at once. My little foray into the seedy underworld has exactly nothing to do with you and your abominable lust for underage boys."

"You disgust me."

"Likewise." I'm smiling, but it's a razor sharp smile and I think I could- I think I should- cut Mycroft down for once. I look him over, my mind brilliant and racing and filled to the brim, and then I spit facts at him so quickly that I fancy it makes him flinch: "You've been to the whorehouse five times in that suit, which you bought three months prior. I doubt you wear the suit often- no, you don't, I see now, only picked it up from the cleaner's yesterday- which means you must be quite the frequent customer. How do you like them, Mycroft? Do you call ahead, beg for the one with the dark hair and the ability to still refer to himself as a teen? Or do you like to distance yourself a bit, pick out one that doesn't remind you of me, side-step your guilt? No, no, I can see, you like the guilt. You prefer it. So, dark-haired whore it is. Does he know? No, not outright. I imagine he suspects _something_, although as infernally mindless as most people seem to be-"

"You've made your point." Mycroft's voice is clipped but steady, and this makes my brow furrow. He's not faking; I really haven't gotten to him. But why? "As much pleasure as this reunion has brought me, Sherlock, I really must be going."

"Going?" It's dark; how long has it been dark? Wasn't it just tea time?

"Yes, going. I'd prefer not to miss my train, although your drug-fueled ranting has been…entertaining, to say the least." Taking a step towards me, Mycroft seems to falter for a moment before lifting his chin and taking the eleven precise, even steps he needs to cross my threshold. And then he's gone.

"Mycroft?" It's morning, evening, morning again. I don't understand; how could Mycroft just leave? I play the violin; I scratch out formulas on the wall with a knife. I take more cocaine. The days feel impossibly long, so how is it that they keep slipping away without my noticing?

I come to the conclusion, just before school resumes (my final year before uni, aren't I supposed to be excited about that?), that I should perhaps reduce my drug intake. I'm not nearly as functional as I was on the lower dose, and if Mummy realizes my marks are suffering she might begin to wonder why. I tweak the solution. I alter the frequency with which I dose myself. I normalize, stabilize. This is better: it's just enough. Just enough to bring the colour back.


	8. To Hell with Propriety

_Sherlock:_

"I see you're still indulging that nasty habit of yours," Mycroft says, closing my bedroom door behind him.

I roll my eyes. Since August, I've fine-tuned my drug use to the point of absolute perfection. I take one injection before school and one right after, and I never get _high_; I just get _better_. My vision feels sharper, my deductions come faster. My schoolwork has never been so perfectly executed. Mycroft can play at holier-than-thou if he'd like, but his indulgences are far worse than mine. "Get out," I yawn, knowing he won't. He approaches me slowly, almost carefully, and lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. My eyes fall closed of their own accord.

It shouldn't surprise me (but it does) when he leans down and whispers, "I've missed you."

I don't say it back. I won't. But that doesn't mean I don't feel the same way. "Get out," I say again, and this time he does.

x

Dinner is an even more horrid affair than usual. I used to like Christmas, though I can hardly remember why. The decorations and the sappy music make me ill.

Mycroft eats enthusiastically; I glare at my plate; Mummy sniffs and nibbles, in an endless cycle. Sometimes I dream about standing up and shaking her, shouting in her face: "He's gone, Mummy! Gone! It's been years! Wake up!" But, as I can hardly see the point, I make do with pulling faces at the waitstaff when I know only Mycroft is looking. It's childish, but I like seeing him half-smile at me like he used to when we were just boys.

After dinner (when we can finally leave that echoing chamber that is the formal dining room, get away from the preposterously long table and the overly ornate chandeliers) we all go to the parlor for drinks. Mummy won't let me drink anything stronger than mulled wine, which I find irritating, but she and Mycroft partake of several glasses of gin and tonic before Mummy finally shuffles off to bed, her gait canting and wobbly. I suspect she took a pill before dinner; there's scarcely any chance that she's simply drunk. Mycroft and I watch her go with the same expression (something I note with displeasure, this shared look of ours).

The tension between Mycroft and myself is making me dizzy, and I know there are two ways to dispel it. I know which way I should use. I also know which way I _will_ use. "I'm going to bed," I say abruptly. I walk past his chair and stop, leaning until my lips are touching the curve of his ear. "Come with me."

Before that little scene in my bedroom earlier, I hadn't been sure. Now I am. I don't look back or wait for him to follow; I just trudge up the stairs, my jaw tight and my hands shaking.

x

We fuck carefully, quietly. It's nicer than it was last time, with Mycroft's face in my neck and his chest pressing against mine. We move more slowly against each other. This time, it barely hurts at all.

When we've both finished (me first, with him inside me, and it was almost too intense for me to stand) we lay gasping in my four-poster bed, my head on his arm and his fingers running slowly up and down my ribs.

"We're fools," Mycroft whispers, his mouth on my temple. "Both of us."

I'm dazed and tired and warm. I want to say _we would be fools to pretend this isn't what we both want_, but when I open my mouth the words change, distort, and I find myself saying, "I want to live with you. In London. I can wait until school ends, but then-"

"Sherlock, please," he says, and I don't think I've ever heard him beg before, not like this, "please, don't."

My eyes are closed; Mycroft and I have turned so that we're forehead to forehead, chest to chest, our legs tangled. "We could do this." My voice is sleepy, distant. "We could, Mycroft. It's not beyond reason."

"Shh." He runs his hand down the length of my face, his thumb brushing along my cheekbone. "Go to sleep, Sherlock." I don't want to; I want Mycroft to promise me that he'll stop running. But I'm so, so tired.

x

When I wake up, I'm alone.

After my morning injection I sidle downstairs to look for Mycroft, and I find I'm not surprised when Mummy tells me that he caught an early train back to London and won't be back for months. I'm not surprised. I'm not.

I don't feel anything at all.


	9. Older, Not Wiser

_Mycroft:_

I come home at Easter, and twice over the summer. I loathe being there (even when Sherlock lets me touch him, even when we're together in the dark). The estate is mine in all but name (I run the household from afar while Mummy languishes and Sherlock does as he pleases) but the sight of it fills me with dread. Sherlock and I have soiled this place, our home. More than once I imagine the day when Mummy is dead and Sherlock long since gone from those halls, and the deed is passed over to me. While I torch the place, burn it to the ground? No; that is only foolish fantasy. I will do what must be done, of course, as always.

When Sherlock goes away to uni (Oxford, why did I ever imagine he would go anyplace else?), Mummy begins calling me often. (I suspect that she calls Sherlock twice as much, though I doubt he ever answers. Whether my suspicions are correct or not, Mummy never says.) Most of the time she snaps at me until whatever anger inside of her is spent, and then she weeps softly for some time before one of the servants (usually Lucinda) takes the phone away, apologizes to me, and hangs up. There are a few times when she calls with a smile in her voice and praise for Sherlock's progress at school on her lips. There is one time when she calls and doesn't say anything at all, and I speak softly into the phone (at my desk, with the clock chiming eleven in the background and the windows dark) until she whispers, "Thank you," and hangs up.

I come home for Christmas with work on my mind and in my briefcase and on the news. I'm busy, suddenly exceptionally busy, and I wonder- not for the first time- if I've done the right thing, choosing this career. I could have had something much more showy, more illustrious. One day I might have even been PM. Instead I chose power and shadows. Well, I suppose shadows are more suited to a man like myself.

Sherlock comes home with stacks of chemistry books and skin as pale and translucent as Mummy's.

x

Christmas dinner is its usual sorry affair. "Sherlock," I smile, watching one of the servers cut the ham with distinct interest. (I have gotten fat, it seems, but my resolution has never been as strong as I'd like.) "How is uni?"

Sherlock is gaunt and tense, his cheeks hollow and his eyes burning. He's not the child to whom I spent a long night giving kissing lessons, nor is he the boy that teased me over a hazy summer tinged with quiet desperation. I don't know this dark, angry man at our table. Mummy's intentional blindness towards his habitual drug use pains me; I wonder if I won't soon need to intervene. "Fine," Sherlock mutters at his (empty, clean) plate. We did not make love during my last visit, if what we do can be referred to as such. I wonder, absently, if we will tonight.

I have, of course, been in touch with all of his professors. He shows up to class sporadically, turns in work that is either incomplete or exceptionally done, and passes all of his exams with undeniable ease. His marks are mediocre; his extracurricular school activities are non-existent. He has no friends. I touch my tongue to a tooth that has been bothering me and wonder if 'fine' is precisely the word I would have chosen for such a situation. Mummy doesn't go so far as to glower at me- to glower would require some form of heat in her expression, and Mummy is always so cold- but she does give me a pointed look. I'm meant to drop the subject; very well. "And your violin? Do you find time for practice?" (I know the answer, because I've bugged his dorm and interrogated his floormates. Yes, he does find time for practice. It's typically between the hours of two A.M. and five A.M. The screeching sounds he produces have been referred to as "god awful" and "bloody dreadful" by his peers.)

"No," Sherlock lies, or else he doesn't consider the mournful sounds he tears from his instrument to be 'practice'. Mummy's mouth becomes a thin, white line. I finish my meal in silence.

Mummy goes to bed. What Sherlock does- if he goes to bed, alone- I don't know. I sit at the desk in Father's old office (the smell of dust and disuse heavy in the air) with my shirtsleeves rolled up and cigarette after cigarette pressed between my lips until the sun begins to lighten the sky, and then I take my work to the train, the office, my flat in Mayfair. I think it must be nearly New Year's Day when I finally sleep.


	10. Bailing Out

_Mycroft:_

The Rolls Royce edges up to the kerb and the passenger window- blacked out, of course, with darker tint than the law typically allows- rolls slowly down. It's drizzling a little, and as I bend slightly at the waist I can feel water droplets ping off my umbrella and hit the back of my coat.

"Ready, sir?" asks the driver. His face is expressionless and cloaked in dark glasses. He wears an earpiece and a hairstyle more suited for the military than for the chauffeuring business (though I happen to know that he's rather heavily involved in both).

"Not quite yet." I give my watch a perfunctorily glance and sigh. I could have him drive me to the laboratories…but the very thought strikes me with a stab of guilty shame, and my tongue finds its way to the singular point of pain in my mouth (a cavity, my third instance) before I clear my throat, shake my head. My sweet tooth, as it were, haunts me. The driver nods once, quickly, and the window slides silently back into place with an affirmative click. I note the bland expression on my face in the reflection on the glass with distant interest; none of the quiet fury that tugs at my stomach can be seen, not at all. I wonder if Sherlock will see it. (I wonder if I will even try to hide it from him.)

I'm at Oxford. Sherlock, it seems, has decided that attendance to his classes is entirely unnecessary. He also appears to have come to the decision that schoolwork is superfluous, that dorm rooms can and must be destroyed, and that very expensive (and, the head of the science department assures me, _very fragile_) lab equipment should be pocketed, broken, misused, and/or misplaced at every opportunity. In short, Sherlock has been raising holy hell in his second year of uni (and my God, it's only October) and I have been called here to "donate" a small fortune (in my deceased father's name, of course) and apologize to anyone who will listen to me. Not by Sherlock, heavens no; Sherlock could hardly care if Oxford booted him into the street tomorrow, I imagine. No, it was Mummy who called. Mummy, with tears in her throat and excuses spilling from her lips. It isn't Sherlock's fault, or so she insists. He's merely a fragile boy, coping as best as he can.

And I'm merely a merry maid, sweeping through and cleaning up her hellion son's mess.

I pause under the eaves of the laboratory facility, shaking out my umbrella and taking a calming breath. It will never do to be so angry when confronted with my impudent sod of a brother. I'm sure his general indifference and smug airs will be infuriating enough without bringing Mummy into the equation.

x

I locate Sherlock easily enough, and I stand outside the lab window for a long moment, simply watching him. He's working on some sort of chemical compound (and I don't have the slightest idea what precisely it is; Sherlock has always been of a rather more scientific bend than me) and the intense focus on his face- the harsh set of his jaw and the blaze in his be-goggled eyes- fascinates me. We are so much the same, my brother and I, but in this we differ: my focus is general (I see everything, but I see it in relation to everything else) whereas his is laser-sharp. And maybe this is why Sherlock has such a hard time with consequences; he can see so much of _right now _that it must be positively overwhelming to try and move that focus into the future.

I switch my thoughts from his mind (which, frankly, terrifies me as much as it arouses/amuses/delights me) to his outward appearance. The goggles and lab-coat don't much suit, I'm afraid, and he looks rather…technical, and dull. But I can see the smart lines of his trousers and the pretty, pressed cuffs of his shirt peeking out of his coat and it's easy enough to envision this handsome man without his ridiculous accoutrements.

Still…he does not look like my brother, my Sherlock. He looks like a man possessed. He looks like a smug bastard; a stranger; an eighteen-year-old with a drug problem and too much money. The old familiar stir of arousal, of need and want and hunger, never comes. Whoever this young man is, he gives me rather more of a headache than any form of pleasure.

When I enter the room, he doesn't look up. Forty-three silent seconds pass before his hand pauses over a beaker (which is filled with some sort of viscous liquid in a shade of stomach-turning yellow) and his pale eyes narrow.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock says, his teeth gritted and his unblinking eyes unwaveringly trained on the table before him.

"You know perfectly well." I cross one leg over the other and lean on my umbrella gently in a way I know annoys him.

Yes, there it is. Annoyance in the crease of his brow, irritation in the twitch of his lower lip. Oh, Sherlock. For just a moment, he looks like _mine _again. "I don't need your help," he says coolly, the moment passing and his face smoothing. It's alarming, this ability. It reminds me too much of myself. (I can't help but think, for just a shadow of a moment: _Don't. Don't be like me. I'm only this way because I must be._ But this moment passes, too. Sherlock and I both have roles to play, and "enabler" isn't mine.) He's yanked off his goggles (and tugged off the lab coat, revealing much nicer clothes and a preternaturally trim waist) and turned to me, his arms folded.

"Too right," I smile, wishing we could jump ahead to the screaming, and then the quiet peace of my Rolls' back seat, the shameful decadence of something French and chocolate, the lonely barren stretch of my cold bed. But a thing worth doing, I reason, is worth doing correctly. I forge on: "If your goal is to destroy your future and everything Mummy and I have worked for, then you're doing swimmingly."

"You're not losing weight as quickly as you'd like; you've stopped seeing whores, though you'd still like to; the new car makes you feel powerful in a way that orchestrating enormous multi-government conspiracies never could; your newest assistant is female, pretty, in her mid-20's, and trained to play at being a great deal more foolish than she is; and that cavity of yours is being filled…" Sherlock looks me over, bites his lip, nods. "…sometime next week. Probably Thursday. Thursday? Yes, I think Thursday." Bringing his gaze up to mine (and as always, I'm struck by the intensity of his intelligence, the power in his unflinching eyes) he says, slowly, "If I can see all that in a glance-"

"Two glances," I smirk, even though it's normally _his_ job to be contrary.

"Linguistics; tedious." His fingers flit in the air, dismissive. "If I can see all that, Mycroft, why on Earth would you imagine that I'd need or care to hear all the infernally boring things you're about to tell me? My future is on the line; Mummy is disappointed." Sherlock's voice has become mocking, his eyes rolling. "The university is angry. Oh, no! Heaven forbid they house a student with more than two brain cells to rub together. The thought, brother dear, appalls me." A slim white hand falls over his heart dramatically.

"If you didn't squander your intelligence," I muse, looking around the room and speaking in bored tones, "the university might be more inclined to overlook some of your more…eccentric behaviours. As it is…"

"As it is, I hardly care what the university thinks, nor have I much regard for your opinions or Mummy's tearful admonitions. I _don't _care." Ever the petulant child, even when he looks so much the man. It strikes me, suddenly, that he looks like Father did when he and Mummy were first married. Aside from those wild, all-seeing eyes. "You know very well that _this_-" Sherlock gestures widely, not to the room but to his life, to Oxford, to our strained relationship and the cocaine that courses through his veins, "-was never what I wanted."

"You are a Holmes." I tip my chin up slightly. "What you want makes very little difference to what you will get."

Sherlock smirks. "When have I ever _not _gotten what I wanted in the end, Mycroft? This war of ours can't- won't- last forever. I'm simply biding my time."

The anger that flashes through me is white hot and blinding; one instant I'm nonchalantly leaning on my umbrella, the next I've got Sherlock pressed to the table, my hands gripping his shoulders and my knee trapping him under me. And damn him, _damn him_, he doesn't look frightened or hateful or even put off. He's just jeering at me in silent amusement, like he's predicted every step in this dance of ours and is happy to see me landing right where he thought I would. I hate him so powerfully in that moment that it's almost as though Sherlock is actually a stranger; I could have him killed and it would be a quiet affair. Mummy wouldn't need to know. My superiors would understand. Things would become so much neater.

The glint in Sherlock's eyes says he predicted these thoughts as well, and he grins at me madly. I don't know when I decide to wipe that mad grin away with my own lips, or if I ever make the decision consciously. I only know that's exactly what I do.

We clutch at each other stupidly, desperately. It feels like fighting, even as his stance widens to allow me between his legs and his hands seek purchase on my coat, my shirt, the waist of my trousers. There's metallic warmth in my mouth; I've bitten his lip, hard enough to break the skin. He doesn't care, doesn't stop. We must look like madmen, his blood smearing both of our mouths. I can feel him trail a bloody path down my throat as his hands wrestle with my zipper.

"Here?" I rasp. I don't care, I honestly don't. I'd take him right at the front of a lecture hall, if he wanted, with the university president and board of directors in attendance. The Prime Minister, the Queen, anyone but Mummy, I don't care. Not right now. Sherlock's hands and mouth are insistent and hot and still mine, still mine even though it's been so long.

"Here, here, God, anywhere," he mumbles against my skin, fumbling with his own trousers. His echo of my sentiments is enough to send a chill of pleasure reverberating down my spine, and the chill grows to a wave as he twists in my arms and faces away from me, his trousers falling down around his ankles.

The positioning is awkward; there's a table in front of Sherlock, but it's too tall to bend him over it and I'm distantly worried about whatever possibly dangerous substances are being stored there. I cock one of his legs up, crooking it so that his knee is pressed against one of the table's legs, and that allows me a smidgeon of purchase, but I can't quite seem to line our bodies up-

Sherlock fidgets and sighs for a moment before tugging me to the floor, which (in hindsight) is the obvious solution. The door is unlocked; there's a damned _window _looking into the room; it's a weekday afternoon and there are students everywhere: none of it matters. I sink into Sherlock's heat, his broken moans only slightly muffled by the cool flooring tile, and all the stress of Mummy's constant nagging, of Father's clammy hand in mine as he whispered "You are my son, and I leave _everything _to you", of the work that never ends and the silence of my over-large flat…it all evaporates into heat and sweat. I fuck him ruthlessly, my anger pouring out with each gasping, aching breath, and then I break one of my rules: I come inside him.

I can feel his shock when it happens, see the line of his spine go still. This has always been some sort of unwritten agreement between us: _not that, never that, only true lovers do that_. As soon as it's done I feel sick. I yank away from him, watching with horror as the semen spills from his body, and I know I've done something irrevocably wrong. Sherlock's body is tense and his eyes _furious _as he tugs on his trousers, wipes at his bloody lip. He meets my eyes with undisguised animosity. "Leave, now," he growls.

"I didn't mean-"

"Now." The edge of anger in his voice doesn't quite hide the underlying tremor of hurt. I can still feel it, the echoes of my orgasm, so intimate and close; I took all of him, I filled him up and left him with nothing. I ruined him.

I don't try to speak again. I just straighten my clothing, scoop up my umbrella, and walk as far as I can before I fall against a wall in the empty corridor and retch for what feels like hours but is only moments, a fleeting few seconds of shame and terror that I smooth from my features almost entirely before I head out to the car.

When I'm alone in the backseat, I investigate myself in a small hand-mirror. There is blood on my mouth, my collar, my hands. My neck is bruised and scratched; my hair is wild and curly with sweat. But my eyes…

My eyes are haunted. I picture Sherlock's white back, the rigid line of his spine as I took what wasn't mine (what could have been mine, if I'd moved him to London or kissed him gently or all the myriad of little things he wanted from me but I couldn't give) and I have to look away. I think of all the countless times I told myself that I would never be so weak again, that I would stop giving in to Sherlock and my own foolish desires.

This time I know it's true. It will never happen again, because Sherlock will never allow it. I've lost him.


	11. Cast Away the Superfluous

_Sherlock:_

I drop out of uni at some point during my third year. I don't actually know when I drop out because it's not intentional; one day I'm in my dorm room, surrounded by colour and soft noise, and the next day I'm in some stinking, mouldy flat in London wearing someone else's clothes and smoking a cigarette the wrong way around. I think it must be summer, judging from how much I'm sweating and how bright liquid hot the sun is, but it's hard to say. Time moves strangely. I find myself in odd places: sitting in an alley with a newspaper, solving crimes in the margins with the stub of a knife-sharpened pencil; in a rubbish bin, apparently hunting for something someone lost and is paying me to find (only I don't remember who lost it, or what was lost in the first place); in a nightclub, impossibly unfathomably irrevocably high, a pair of rough and random hands on my hips, my thighs, my arse; at the shops, stealing supper; on the corner, buying more and more and more of whatever drug I can get my hands on. The heroin is the worst, I think. I lose myself most often when I'm riding that particular high. But…I take what I can get.

One day I'm wearing a coat and gloves, and the world is so bright, so glossy, so _interesting_ that I want to gather all the air around me and hold it still while I study it. I chase a certain current until I'm dizzy, and when I wake up (did I fall asleep? I think I must have done, because I've been dreaming) I'm in a holding cell and there's a man staring at me intently from beyond the bars. He's got dark hair, threaded with silver, and a strong jaw. He looks like the sort of man who enjoys a good pint after work and will always, without a doubt, order the fish and chips wherever he goes.

"Your wife is cheating on you," I say slowly. My throat hurts; I don't remember the last time I ate drank breathed slept. "But you knew that already. You allow it because you think it's easier to pretend you don't know than to confront the thing head-on."

If the man is disturbed by my (undoubtedly true) deduction, he doesn't let on. The only change in him is a small quirk of the eyebrow. I take in his long coat (wants to appear taller), crossed arms (wants to appear tougher), black eye (? has been a fight recently, that much is obvious) and combative expression (_oh_, I gave him the black eye, I see) and sit down with a sigh. "I'm being charged with assaulting an officer, obviously," I yawn. I am so tired. So, so tired. "What else?" I could guess, but I'd rather not give fuel to any non-existent fires.

"A whole host of drug charges, for one," says the man, a bit stiffly. His accent is very working-class; I'd guess Brixton. "Lewd and disorderly conduct."

"Lewd?" That's something of a surprise. I had been half-dozing, but I crack my eyes and stare at him as he spreads his hands and shrugs.

"Three dozen witnesses claim you…eh, exposed yourself in order to urinate. Directly in front of a double-decker filled to capacity with American tourists." He's trying not to crack a smile. I decide I like him.

Closing my eyes, I ask, "Anything more?"

"Should there be?"

Oh, yes, I like him quite a bit.

Mycroft must wave his magic wand in my direction, because after a short nap and a particularly horrid cup of coffee I'm free to go. This is for the best because my skin is beginning to itch something awful. I need a quick fix, a nicotine hit, a _real _cup of coffee, a shower, and a good shag, possibly not in that order. But definitely the fix first. Always the fix first.

x

The next time I see my favorite Yarder, he's sitting beside me in Processing, his face at once bemused and curious. "How did you know about my wife?" he asks, and I wonder vaguely how long ago we had that conversation. A year? A week? I'm wearing decent trousers (my own, then) and a somewhat baggy button-down (someone else's, clearly; male, possible athlete, wealthy enough that money isn't a huge concern but nothing near as rich as I am/was) but no coat, so I guess it must be awhile later. I brush the concern aside with a stifled yawn.

"The first part was a guess, but a good one. You're in your mid-thirties, so most likely married. The bags under your eyes and the state of your clothes suggested you'd been working late; your lack of irritation on the matter suggested this was habitual. So, we've got a man who's been married, oh, five years or so going on the state of your ring, but spends an exuberant amount of time at work and isn't unhappy about it. If your wife wasn't messing about, Sergeant, she'd be the most moral woman in London. Or the most depressed." I take a breath, fidget in my handcuffs. "The second part was easier: your face told me. You weren't surprised, but you _were _uncomfortable, only the discomfort wasn't directed at me. Clearly it was something you knew but disliked acknowledging. Deducing the motive was extraordinarily simple. People love ignorance; it's the only thing that keeps them sane." My mouth tastes awful, like blood and dirt and something worse, something stale. "Coffee? I take mine black, two sugars. And none of that rubbish they gave me the last time; I want whatever you drink."

The sergeant (he must be a sergeant, all eagerness in his eyes and exhaustion in the lines of his face; this man is working hard for a promotion, clearly, but he's not young and he's not foolish, so he's been climbing rank for awhile) blinks at me. "The nerve of you-" he begins, but then he stops and seems to collect himself. Eventually, slowly, he says, "Do you…do you do that all the time? That trick of yours?"

"It's not a trick," I sniff indignantly. I think some of the effect is lost when I half-choke on blood from my apparently broken nose (I don't feel it; I don't feel much these days, however, so I'm not distressed) and the sergeant has to clean me up with one of his old tissues. (He doesn't have a cold; must be allergies. So is it spring?) When I'm acceptably clean enough to meet the sergeant's standards, I clear my throat and repeat, "It's not a trick. I merely observe."

"Uh-huh." He glances at his watch and sighs, the sound equally weary and accepting. "Well, I figure we've got at least an hour before your brother sweeps in and rescues you, so…let's say we go down to the holding cells, eh? Maybe you could have a look at a couple of the boys down there, tell me what you think."

"What's in it for me?"

The sergeant grins. "Coffee. Black, two sugars, and from the officer's lounge."

I consider this for a moment. "Deal. But you switch my cuffs to the front, and warn me if I'm bleeding all over myself."

"Fair enough."

x

The third time I meet the sergeant, I come to in his office. I'm cuffed, but otherwise this might have been just a casual chat. There's a cup of coffee, still steaming, on the desk directly in front of me, and beside it is a placard that reads "Sergeant G. Lestrade". The man himself has his feet on the desk and is looking over the contents of a file (the label reads I-#9849-2894, which means very little to me right now) and chewing carelessly on what looks like an extremely old, plain bagel. When I reach out for my coffee, Lestrade glances over at me and practically beams.

"Oh, mornin' sunshine!" He slaps the file down on the desk and put his feet down, knitting his fingers together. "Glad you could join me."

"Hardly had a choice, did I?" I say, lifting my cuffed hands. I glance around the office: sparsely decorated; there's a football pennant hanging behind the chair and a family photo on the desk. It's not recent, so I suspect it was taken before the wife began her affair. There's a potted plant sitting on top of the air unit, the leaves gone brown and crunchy. Someone else bought it, then, and someone Sergeant Lestrade holds in very little esteem. Interesting. A glance down at the rug tells me it isn't hoovered often; late nights, then, and the custodial staff can't drag the man away from his office long enough to give it a proper cleaning. I look back at Lestrade, who's watching me with keen interest.

"Tell me what you see," he says, eager, so I do.

x

When Mycroft comes to collect me, I'm furious. No, furious doesn't cover it; I'm _seething _with fury, angrier than I've ever been in my life. For one thing, I hate him. For another, I'm no longer high. And thirdly, I can tell from the set of his jaw and the look in his eyes that he's taking me to rehab. This only infuriates me because it means I'll have to find some furtive means of escape, and escaping might take awhile, and _damn it all _I need a cigarette and a cup of coffee and a hit of anything, anything that will make my skin stop crawling and my mind slow down. I don't have time/energy/interest in breaking out of some overly posh rehab facility, and I tell Mycroft as much.

"Then don't break out," he says. He looks so fussy in his stupid suit, his hair combed so neatly. His diet has been effective, but it won't last. Mycroft's weight will yo-yo for years, I expect, and this brings me some form of marginal satisfaction. "I'm only doing this for your benefit."

"Yes, good, the caring brother lark. Please, do go on. I love this bit." My scowl, I think, makes the sarcasm a touch unnecessary. Still, I don't want to go to rehab. I really, really don't. And perhaps, if I can annoy Mycroft enough, I might be able to talk my way out of it.

"No, you won't," Mycroft says softly, reading my mind again. Well, unless I thought aloud. Sometimes I do that. "I can't save you from yourself, Sherlock, but you'll never forgive me if I don't try."

It takes me five hours and twenty-six minutes to break out of that damned facility.


	12. I Thee Wed

_Sherlock:_

I wake up one morning (is it morning? consider angle of sunlight, sun's trajectory, realise I don't know what month is, give up) to country air and birdsong. There's a little under a gram of cocaine in my pocket (I am fully dressed in the most expensive suit I've worn in over a year, though the suit is now rumpled from sleep and damp with dew) and I'm in the park I visited a hundred times over as a child, the one in the little village down the road from my family estate. I don't know what I'm doing here, but I know that I very desperately don't want to be here. My lungs ache for London; my head aches from, if the smell of my shirt is anything to go on, an excess of bourbon and expensive cigars. The phrase "stag party" is sticking in my mind, but I can't fathom why. Who would invite _me _to a stag party?

Ah.

I catch a ride back to the manor with a group of servants, all of whom seem to recognize me (and most of whom can't stop tittering and looking at my hair, which I will mentally acknowledge is a wreck, probably, not that I've seen it) despite of all them being wholly unfamiliar to me. I ask the one nearest me if I've missed my brother's wedding, and she smiles as she tells me that I have not. I ignore her for the rest of the trip.

Nipping off to the lav, I bump the last of the cocaine and then glide my way to my brother's supposed whereabouts. There are people everywhere, so many of them, all surrounded by vibrant colour. This one bathes in violet; that one shimmers maroon. A little girl laughs in silky claret as her infant sister wails in deep, chocolate brown. Who are all these people? When did Mycroft run off and make friends?

I find my brother in Daddy's old changing room, grimacing at the mirror and twiddling with his right cufflink. He looks at me sharply when I come in and swivels, two bright blossoms of pink bursting across his cheeks. "Where have you been?" he snaps, and the words dance around me in a pool of honey-gold.

"Having a bit of a lie-down," I sigh, my tone playful. I feel like twirling, so I do.

Mycroft lifts his eyebrows at me, his mouth pulled together tightly. I remember that mouth. I don't want to, but I do. "You're high," he says simply, and I take a bit of offense at his disdain. As if he's not done infinitely worse.

"And you're a prick," I spit, but it's lacking and I know it. I sink down in the room's only armchair, closing my eyes and draping my arms over the sides. "Can't you get married tomorrow? I don't feel well at all."

He's silent for a long moment. "No," he says at last, "I don't imagine you do. So be it; I've already arranged for your replacement to step in, and I see no need to alter those arrangements."

"Replacement?" I'm reasonably certain I'm supposed to be his best man, although the title perturbs me. Best at what? I asked, last night, I remember that now. I asked, and everyone laughed. But I wasn't joking.

"Mm." Mycroft reaches up, straightens his crimson cravat. "I planned for this, you know. I knew you couldn't be relied upon."

"Guilt is your thing, big brother, not mine." I smile widely. "Oh, how fun. Fond remembrances. It's your wedding day, Mycroft. Anything on which you'd like to reminisce? Old lovers, perhaps? I can think of one particularly illicit affair that took place right under this very roof."

"Sherlock." I haven't heard him use that warning tone with me in years. "Don't."

"How about one last shag, brother dear, for old times' sake?" I stand and trail my fingers along the line of his shoulders, crookedly smiling at his reflection. "Then you can scamper off afterwards and bathe in the afterglow of hot, lusty guilt. Mm? Might tamp down some of the horror you'll experience tonight, when bonny bride expects a thorough plundering from her newly beloved."

He shrugs me off, and I'm a little startled by the look of genuine anguish that flits across his face and vanishes just as quickly. "Don't be obscene. Go and have a shower; at least you might be decent enough to appear at the reception."

"I'll have my shower," I growl, "after you have me. Surely there's time?" I don't know why I'm saying any of this. I hate him, especially after the last time (how long ago was that? three years? four?) when he took me so roughly and then…then…did what he did. I'll never forgive him. So why am I pressed up against his back, half-hard already at the thought of him doing it again? (Or, some vengeful sprite mutters in my ear, of _me_ doing it to _him_.)

It's a complete surprise when he pushes me away, my balance gone and my limbs flailing. I catch myself on the armchair and look up at him from under curls that have grown too long without my notice and keep falling in my eyes. "Don't be a fool, Mycroft," I hiss, standing up and neatening my suit jacket. "It's meaningless, all of it. Fake love-making right before a fake wedding; don't you think it suits?"

"I don't want you, Sherlock."

I look at his face in the mirror for a long time, long enough that when I switch to my own reflection it seems unreal, a pale ghost with wild eyes and blood-rushed lips. I know he means it. He doesn't want me. How is that possible? How?

"Oh." An ugly sneer crosses mirror-me's face and I consider, briefly, smashing the thing to pieces. "I see now, Mycroft. I see."

Mycroft watches me the way someone watches a loved one dying in hospital, like he expects me to go at any moment and is torn between wanting it and feeling guilty for wanting it. "You really don't," he whispers, and I hate him so much that I burn with it.

"When did I become too old for you? Sixteen? No, not quite. Seventeen? I was eighteen the last time we fucked; was I already too old?" The smile that drags across my lips feels painful, twisted. "Ah. I was. But you made an exception."

The slap that Mycroft delivers to my face is strong enough to send me sideways, my ears ringing. I clutch my burning cheek, not so surprised to find that my hands are shaking. "You could never leave well enough alone, could you?" Mycroft's voice is low and dangerous, and I've never heard him like this before. I wonder if he's going to kill me, decide it's probably too much mess for him. Maybe he'll parse it out to someone less intelligent and I can make my escape. "You destroy everything you touch. It's your nature. You, Sherlock, are a destructive force. And I find I simply don't have the wherewithal to cope, not anymore." When he touches me I flinch, but he only presses a wad of cash into my hand and whispers, "Go back to London, brother mine. Go. Don't come back here again."

I look up into his face, into eyes that radiate anger and heat and something else, something more brutal and honest than I can understand (and I think it's love, I think it must be, but I don't want to see it so I don't), and I know that he's letting me go. He's giving me my freedom, but at what cost? "And you?"

"I am to be married in fourteen minutes," Mycroft says gently. "I need you to leave now."

My nod is slow, shaky. I can feel my lower lip trembling and it's like I'm a child again, standing out on the lawn as Mycroft tells me, "Put the bird down, Sherlock. You've handled it too roughly and now it's dead. Put it down." This pain is the same; I've killed something unknowingly, wrung the life out of it by loving it too much, too fiercely. My throat feels raw and terrible; my skin is beginning to itch.

I don't say good-bye.


	13. Epilogue

_Mycroft:_

The building that houses Sherlock's flat on Montague is squalid and smells vaguely of curry and cigarette smoke. I take the steps up to his door slowly, not wanting to touch the railing even with my gloved hand (which, considering these gloves cost more than the building itself would, makes sense). On the landing outside his flat I withdraw the key from my pocket and slip it carefully into the lock. He never gave me a key, of course, but I doubt he'll be surprised to find I have one. I open the door.

Sherlock is draped across a couch that looks as though he found it in the street (knowing Sherlock, this is probably exactly what happened) and thumbing through a textbook. He's surrounded by loose papers, pens, books, and cigarette butts. He doesn't look up as I close the door behind me, and he pays me no mind as I poke around the room, examining his things.

Eventually he says, with a hint of a yawn in his voice, "You could have brought me a coffee. I'm sure your surveillance detail informed you that I was doing schoolwork."

They had. "Sherlock. How have you been?" He looks well, now that he's mostly clean (only the most occasional hiccup) and resumed working towards his degree in chemistry. I suspect he might even be eating again, though it's probably still a rarity.

"I'm sure you know, so I won't waste my breath." Five years has passed, but nothing's changed. Not really. He's still the same infuriating boy I've always known. "You're not much for legwork, Mycroft, so I presume there's some actual reason you're here in person."

"Mummy's dying," I say. No need to circle the point.

"She's always dying." Sherlock licks his finger, turns a page. "She's been dying for nearly sixteen years. What's different about this time?"

"This time," I say softly, "the doctors agree."

When Sherlock looks up at me, his eyes are as pale and ethereal as the most impenetrable fog.

_Sherlock:_

"What do you expect me to do about it?" I snap, hoping for a little more malice than I'm able to muster. Mycroft isn't fooled, not that I really expected him to be; we know each other too well for that.

"Nothing," Mycroft smiles, holding his hands out before pressing his palms together in front of him. "I only thought you would like to know."

I scan his face for a long, silent moment. Finally I say, "I'm not coming home."

The word "home" seems to make him wince; good. "I don't expect you to. If you'd like to visit Mummy, you're free to do, naturally, but it will make little difference either way. She's on an astonishing array of prescription pharmaceuticals at the moment so I hardly expect she will recognize you." He doesn't voice the fear that hangs around him like a visible aura: he worries she will think I'm Daddy, and that it will hurt her more than if I didn't come at all.

"No." I turn back to my book, staring at the words but not seeing them. "No, I don't need to see her. I imagine you'll send me something to wear to the funeral. And a car. I haven't any money for the train."

"Very well." As if he hadn't been planning those things already. He sets something down on the windowsill nearest me- a small moleskin notebook, writing on the first several pages but blank the rest of the way through; a billfold, containing a thousand quid in small bills; a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches- and makes for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "I understand you've been doing some minor consulting work for the Scotland Yard."

"Very minor," I admit. "They won't let me do much until I'm finished with uni."

I can sense, rather than see, Mycroft smiling. "I hoped you might do some work of a rather more classified nature for me, and for the Country. I've left you the pertinent information."

"Not interested," I say automatically, even though I'm already itching for him to leave so I can pour over the contents of that moleskin notebook.

Mycroft plays along. "Do, at least, consider it. Farewell, my brother, and do please try to stay out of trouble." I make a rude gesture at the door just as it closes before leaping up and skidding to the window in my stocking-feet, my hand closing around the notebook.

I skim the pages- something to do with a double agent, foreign crime, leaked information; ho hum- before looking out the window just as Mycroft leaves the building. His car appears from down the street almost immediately, easing to a stop just in front of him, and as he reaches for the door handle he looks up at me, meets my eyes, and smiles sadly. I can feel the echo of that smile on my own face. We're brothers after all, Mycroft and I. Brothers to the last.


End file.
